


Moments You Cannot Reprise

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, F/M, Gen, Sten - Freeform, Tabristair - Freeform, Wynne - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:25:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6969013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran saves Alistair’s life, and reveals to Aeron what actually drove him to Ferelden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moments You Cannot Reprise

It is, in all fairness, a fairly simple expedition; picked up while staying overnight at a refugee camp on the road to Redcliffe. Visit the nearby hastily-evacuated village, kill the invading darkspawn, and report back to the refugees on their success so that they might attempt to reclaim at least their belongings (if not return to the peaceful lives they once had).

Getting to the village proves to be no problem.

Killing the darkspawn, by now, is practically routine.

It is, however, in the aftermath that things change.

“Hang on. Hang on!” Aeron looks around. “Where is Alistair?”

Nowhere among them, that much becomes immediately certain among the fallen darkspawn bodies. It isn’t like someone could have carried him off. Alistair would have made noise if someone tried! Even incapacitated, with all that armor, he weighs too much to make it worthwhile—

“Warden!”

It is Sten, loud and ominous. He stands at the edge of the lake’s pier, kneeling by something on the ground.

Alistair’s sword.

Aeron feels the bottom of her stomach drop. With all that armor…

“No—”

She had heard the splash, hadn’t she? It comes back to her hard as she struggles to pull off her armor. There was definitely a moment during the blur of battle; Alistair was _there_ , dealing with a genlock, and then there was a _splash_ like something large hitting the water, but Aeron didn’t check to see what caused the sound. She _couldn’t_ check! She was struggling with two hurlocks of her own, pressed back-to-back with Sten—

A rush of footsteps draws Aeron’s attention up in time to see Zevran cast aside his bow and quiver before diving straight into the water.

“Zevran!” Her attempt to follow him is quickly halted by Sten’s grip around her arm. “Let _go—!_ ”

“Your armor,” Sten tells her. “You’re still wearing it.”

“Fuck my armor! I don’t have time—!” Against Aeron’s every bid to pull free, he tightens his grip. “Sten, _please_ , I have to help them!”

“No.” Sten’s stares her down hard. “You’ll only sink, like him.”

“Sten—!”

_“No.”_

Movement from the water draws their attention. Zevran breaks the surface with a small gasp, and he is not empty handed. He clutches to an unconscious and pale Alistair as if using him to float.

“Help me lift him!” Zevran looks to Sten. “I thought to cut him free of his armor, but it would have taken too long.”

Only now does Sten let her go. Zevran clambers back onto the pier. Aeron steps back to give them space, barely feeling it when she lands gracelessly on the ground, too focused as she is on the scene playing out in front of her. Sten makes the task of lifting Alistair onto the pier and laying him out look so effortless, doesn’t he? Like Alistair is just this doll, just one of the little figurines he carries around in that small satchel at the bottom of his knapsack; weightless, lifeless, still. It’ll be funny to recall later—perhaps inappropriately so, but funny all the same—when they return to recover at camp.

Because that’s how this _will be_ , won’t it? Surely. Of course.

“Is he—?”

“Don’t ask me that.” Zevran drops to his knees by Alistair’s side. “Not yet.”

“His breath is still,” Sten notes, “and his heart—”

 _“Don’t,”_ Zevran insists. “There’s still…”

It feels like watching a play, or like being in the midst of a dream. Aeron watches Zevran’s fingers nimbly work the buckles holding pieces of Alistair’s armor in place. The gloves, the gauntlets, the pauldrons, finally the chest plate; with Sten’s help they are all cast aside. Zevran sets his hands on top of Alistair’s unmoving chest—one over the other, fingers interlocking—and pushes _down_ in a series of short bursts.

_“—cinco, seis, siete, ocho, nueve—”_

She can hear what sounds like counting and tries to follow. After what she thinks is _thirty_ , Zevran abruptly stops. He closes his fingers around Alistair’s nose, tilts Alistair’s head back, takes a deep breath…and firmly seals his mouth over Alistair’s bluing lips. Aeron watches as his chest rises with the air Zevran gives him. She watches it fall as Zevran lifts his head and gasps out a phrase neither Aeron nor Sten can understand before he takes another breath of air and repeats the act.

Again, Alistair’s chest rises. It falls. It remains at rest.

Zevran curses under his breath as he links his hands together once more.

“Come on—” More of those rapid compressions. Every muscle in Zevran’s arms is flexed tight. “Come on, Alistair. Don’t be stubborn now—”

Sten is the only one who does not jump at the loud _crack!_ of bone. Aeron actually cries out. Zevran only lets it startle him briefly. He bends to breathe more air into lungs that resist—waiting, watching, cursing a little more loudly in Antivan when nothing happens. His eyes blaze with desperate determination. Aeron wants to believe that alone will see them through, will help him bring Alistair back.

She wants _so much_ to believe it.

“Come on! Don’t make—” Zevran’s voice breaks as he tilts Alistair’s head back. “I never really wanted to kill you. Don’t try to fix that.”

When he takes in a deep breath, Aeron catches herself doing the same. She watches Alistair’s chest rise. Her stomach twists into knots as she waits for the inevitable drop—

Except this time, it doesn’t. Alistair’s entire body jerks as if touched by lightning. Choking sounds rise from his throat. Zevran barely has time to straighten up before a mix of water and vomit bubbles out of still-blue lips.

“Help me turn him—Sten—!”

“How?”

“On his side—like that, yes—” Zevran nods. A shaky sound of triumph escapes him over the noise of Alistair coughing and retching. “There we go! That’s what we want. Get it out and try to breathe, friend. Just try—”

Alistair breathes in creaky gasps and weak moans. He tries to curl in on himself before both men stop him. As Sten places Alistair on his back again, Zevran takes one of his wrists in hand.

“His heart is picking up, and he’s breathing again. That’s what we want.” He sets Alistair’s wrist down gently and looks down at him. “Do you know your name?”

“A—” Alistair coughs again, face twisting with pain. He groans. “ _Maker_ , what _hit_ me?”

“Your name,” Zevran repeats. “What is your name?”

“Alist—it’s Alistair. My name is—” He tries to sit up before the pain strikes him hard enough to make him clench his teeth and groan loudly. “Hell, what _happened_ to me?!”

“You’ve been blessed by the Maker, it seems.” Zevran breathes a sigh of relief. “Still, the sooner we get him to Wynne, the better. I’m afraid I may have broken a rib or two.”

And despite the fear still rattling in Aeron’s chest, a short burst of laughter escapes her. “This might be the only time that gets to be a good thing.”

“Buh—broken _what_?” asks Alistair.

“Trust me,” Zevran answers, a hand on his shoulder. “You will thank me later for it.”

* * *

Wynne’s tent always smells so strongly of the herbs and salves she uses to keep the rest of them whole and healthy. No matter what Aeron tries, entering always results in that terrible _itch_ before a flurry of sneezing. Wynne gives her a sympathetic look.

“Bless you, dear.”

“Thank—” Aeron sneezes again. “Ugh. Thank you.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I feel like I should be used to this by now.”

“If I can pinpoint which herb it is, I might be able to craft something to suppress the reaction for you,” Wynne offers.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I can handle a bit of…”

The thought dissipates when her gaze settles on Alistair as he sits on the cot. Wynne’s magic has certainly come through for them once again. At worst, he only looks tired. If she hadn’t been there to witness it, Aeron would have trouble believing this is the same man who was lying pale and lifeless on the pier.

Maybe it would have been better that way. As vivid as the image remains in her mind…

Alistair looks up at her. “You’re thinking. What about?”

“As if it’s not obvious.” Aeron crosses her arms. “I’m thinking about what a right mess you look.”

“Oh! Do I?” He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. “I hear that’s a completely expected side effect of nearly drowning. Luckily, it’s also the easiest to cure.”

“Is that what you heard?” She glances to Wynne. “What do you say, Wynne?”

Wynne gives them both a slightly disapproving look. “I say that Alistair should count his blessings. Zevran’s gesture saved his life _and_ only cracked two of his ribs.”

“You know, it always bothers me how you make these horrific experiences sound so casual,” Alistair tells her. “I mean, I almost died!”

“But you didn’t, and you have Zevran to thank for that,” Wynne points out. “And I should hope, if you are truly a man of honor, that you will.”

“I will! I’m not that…” He frowns. “I will! Honest!”

“I’ll make sure he does,” Aeron tells her. “I know I still need to.”

Wynne nods at them both. “I would also recommend Alistair get some extra rest. No sitting watch tonight.”

“What? No!” Alistair rises. “Come on, I’m not that bad off, am I?”

“I’ve healed the damage, but you need to give your body a chance to adjust. I’ve told you this before,” Wynne reminds him.

“But I can _at least_ —I mean—” He turns to Aeron. “Dear. A bit of help here?”

Oh, she’ll help, alright. Aeron approaches his side and weaves her fingers between his. “I’ll make sure he gets the rest he needs, Wynne. Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, not the kind of help I was expecting. Unless—hang on—is that code for something else?” He starts to smile a little. “It is, isn’t it?”

“I’ll let you figure that out yourself,” Aeron answers, pulling him along after her. “Come along, ser.”

“Note that I do mean _actual rest!_ ” Wynne calls after them, perhaps with what Aeron imagines is a look of greater disapproval.

“Do you mean to really keep me off my turn at watch tonight?” asks Alistair as they near their tent. “Honestly—I mean, I feel fine. I can certainly handle a few hours of keeping watch, what with our defenses as solid as they are.”

“Personally, I would rather you listen to Wynne for once,” Aeron tells him. “Don’t tempt fate again so quickly, Alistair. My heart needs a chance to recover, too.”

Alistair abruptly stops and her fingers nearly slip free of his. Their gazes meet. Her breath catches in her chest. Wordlessly, Alistair draws her into him, wraps his arms around her tight, and presses a kiss into her hair. Aeron finds relief in how warm he is, in how strong his heart beats within his chest. It softens the memory of this afternoon—makes it somehow smaller, easier to set aside.

“I’m right here,” Alistair tells her.

“I know.” Aeron draws in a long breath. “But for a moment, you _weren’t_ , and I know that’s one of the risks and that we swore ourselves to this order and that we’re bound to this task all the same, but…Alistair, that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.” She raises her eyes to meet his again. “It’s never any less terrifying.”

“I know.” Alistair caresses the curve of her face. “And I wish it were different. Still, we’ve got a job to do, don’t we?”

“We should also be in peak health to do it,” she counters, “so…please, if just for me—”

“Alright. Alright, I will. But only because you said please—and, perhaps,” Alistair hurriedly adds, “also on your oath as a Grey Warden to cuddle with me until I fall asleep.”

Aeron blinks. “What?”

“That’s the cure, you know. The one I mentioned earlier—”

“ _Oh_ , is it, now?”

“It is!” he insists, looking almost offended by her doubt. “What, you’re going to doubt medical fact? It’s totally true! Read it in a book and everything!”

“Oh, okay, it was in a book. That _must_ make it true.” Aeron rolls her eyes and mocks an annoyed huff. “You are an insufferable nuisance, Alistair Theirin.”

“That’s true, my love. I am. However—” Alistair pulls her in for a kiss. “—I am also _your_ insufferable nuisance. That should make all the difference.”

And it does. Of course, it does.

* * *

When Aeron rises to take her shift, she is surprised to find Zevran sitting by the campfire—not so much because she expected him to be sleeping, no, but because for as long as they have traveled together, he has always preferred as high or as secluded a perch as he can find. (It’s why they always seek out space near clusters of trees, isn’t it? His early insistence on it has certainly paid off more than once.) As she approaches, however, she notices things. Neither Zevran’s bow nor his quiver are anywhere in sight. None of his poison-making tools are out, nor no books… He has on none of his armor. Even his usually-braided blond hair hangs completely loose around his shoulders.

What really catches Aeron’s attention is the expression on his face. Try as she might, he has never looked quite as somber as he does now. She wonders if she might be intruding on a private moment and starts to back away—

“Don’t worry. I’m not completely defenseless. There are still about twelve different ways with which I could dispatch an unwanted visitor without so much as a sound.”

Aeron tilts her head. “Only twelve?”

Even though he gives her a smile, the sadness persists on his face. “A good assassin knows his limits. That’s how he lives long enough to become a great one.”

“Is that right?” She approaches with some measure of caution. “May I join you?”

“Warden, yours is always welcome company.” He pats the space beside him on the log. “Please.”

A measure of silence settles between them as she sits down. It is as if the events of the day have finally caught up to them. What now? Do they talk about it? Pretend it was nothing? Aeron draws in a small breath.

“I, ah…I mean to find some way to truly thank you, Zevran.”

“Mm?” He raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For the obvious.”

“Ah.” He chuckles. “There’s no debt here to repay. If there was, it was completely mine. After all, you did spare my life.”

That’s true. She did. “Still, I…I’m not so sure that counts.”

“Why not?”

“When I spared you, it was to make you my prisoner—maybe even turn you into a, uh, a kind of bargaining chip against Loghain.” Aeron shifts uncomfortably. “I guess I don’t have to tell you that you’re not… I mean, you’ve proven I can trust you not to knife me in my sleep—”

“And yet,” Zevran says, “you’re still wondering why I did it, aren’t you?”

Aeron frowns. It’s true, regardless of how much she wants to deny it. “Maybe it’s nothing. Something you said, about…you never really wanted to kill him. Us. You never—and it just—for whatever reason, Zevran, it sticks out to me, same as the way you looked while you were doing it all, like you really wanted him to live.

“And that’s true, isn’t it? You really— That wasn’t you pretending or half-trying to save him. You wanted him to live.” She turns her gaze to the fire. “I mean, what’s the alternative? That you really are just that good at pretending, and keeping him alive is important to whatever new plan you’ve got going that ends with handing us to Loghain—”

 _“No.”_ The word comes out heavy with conviction. Zevran shakes his head. “No, I have done a lot for my own gain and pleasure, true, but _this_ , Warden… I did this for you—both of you.”

“Because we spared your life?”

“There is a bit of that, I suppose, yes. Maker knows I certainly continue to appreciate that gesture of goodwill. But…” He sighs a little. His gaze drops to his hands. “Do you remember when that man guarding the Sacred Ashes asked questions of us all?”

Aeron nods. “Though I don’t remember what he asked you.”

“I never let him finish. I knew, you see, what he was going to ask; the other questions it would raise. I didn’t want to face that. In a lot of ways…I still don’t. The truth is I’m not proud of what led me here.”

“And what was it, Zevran?”

“A woman.” He makes a bitter sound and glances at her. “That does not surprise you at all, does it? But it was not just a woman—or rather, I’ve come to understand that it was not her fault.

“But I did love her so. Rinna—that was her name.” Genuine heartache flickers across his face. “She was everything I wanted—tough, graceful, skilled in the art of the Crows—and she touched a level of my heart I thought I kept well-guarded. It frightened me, _she_ frightened me, but the intensity of my feelings drew me closer to her all the same. I should have known it wouldn’t last.”

It feels strange to ask when the answer feels so obvious, but the silence is uncomfortable otherwise.

“What happened to her?”

“It was my own pride, my own foolishness. It may be impossible to believe, but I was much more arrogant and boastful than I am now. My last mission was complicated—a rich merchant was smart enough to employ numerous guards and security measures—but I knew that alongside Taliesen and Rinna, it would be as if simply entering through the front door.

“It should have been, anyway, until Taliesen revealed to me that she had taken a bribe and betrayed our entire plan. We couldn’t let that stand. Betraying the order carried only one punishment.”

“You killed her.”

“ _Worse._ I stood by and let it happen.” Zevran draws in a deep breath. He keeps his gaze lowered. His shoulders are hunched forward as if he is trying to conceal himself. “Rinna begged and pleaded her innocence as Taliesen put the knife to her throat. She insisted that she loved me and would never betray us. Still, I did nothing. Worse—I laughed. I spat on her and said it didn’t matter what she said.

“I was lying then. Of course, it mattered—the ache of it was worse than any wound I have ever received—and when we discovered that she _was_ , in fact, as innocent as she claimed—”

His voice breaks the same way it did on the pier. Their gazes meet long enough for Aeron to see flashes of terror and disgust in his eyes.

“Zevran—”

But what can she say? Nothing. Nothing suffices.

“We covered it up with more lies. We said she died in the process of the mission.” Zevran buries his face against one of his hands. “It didn’t matter. They knew. They didn’t care.” His breath grows heavy, each exhale shakier than the last. “We Crows are expendable things, you know. Tools in the service of others. Easily replaced when broken.”

“Zevran…”

Without thinking, Aeron wraps an arm around his shoulders and draws him into a hug. He tenses. A soft sound of confusion escapes him. She does not move. She does not say a single word. After all, what is there that she could say to sooth him? Nothing, nothing, nothing…

Eventually, Zevran relaxes. He slips an arm around Aeron’s waist and makes a resting place of her shoulder. (Aeron thinks she sees him bring a hand to wipe his eyes.) They sit together that way, watching the fire in silence, for what feels like ages. She listens as his breathing grows calm, steady. As the moment begins to pass, Zevran draws himself away first. He already looks more at ease, more like his usual self.

“I have one more secret to share, if you will hear it. Do you remember asking me why I wanted to leave the Crows?”

Aeron nods. “You still haven’t told me.”

“Because it wasn’t the Crows I wanted to leave. It was everything,” Zevran answers. “After what happened with Rinna, I wanted to die. I came to Ferelden certain that if anyone could grant me that wish, surely it would be one of the fabled Grey Wardens.”

“But we didn’t kill you.”

“And now here we are—you and I, alone beneath the stars and in front of a warm fire—though this usually goes very differently from how it has gone.” Something in his expression turns soft. “I think, just in this one instance, I prefer it this way. I swore to myself I would never speak about what happened, but…perhaps I needed to. I’m glad it was with you.”

“I’m glad I you trust me this much,” Aeron tells him. “A little surprised, too, but—”

“Don’t be. There is much in you that inspires it. I have no shame admitting that much,” Zevran answers. “Alistair is a particularly fortunate man—maybe even more than most like him, since he seems so aware of it.” After a beat of silence, he nudges her. “Go to him.”

“What?”

“I’ll play the watchman tonight. Go.”

“But—” Aeron glances towards the tent. “Zevran, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Aeron. Trust me. The world will still need Grey Wardens in the morning.” He smiles gently at her. “Go.”

After another moment to consider it, and with a small sigh, Aeron finally rises. “I will repay you this debt, Zevran. Mark my words on that.”

Zevran only chuckles. “Your honor continues to be as admirable as your beauty. I am fortunate to witness both so frequently.”

“Damn right you are.”

“Ah, and confident as well! Andraste herself should be envious.” He takes Aeron’s hand and presses a chaste kiss against her knuckles. “Sleep well, my friend.”

She wishes she could say the same to him. She wonders if it would matter, if there is a single person in this camp who _isn’t_ haunted by ghosts of their own making. Alistair and his parentage, Morrigan and her strange mother, Leliana and the spymaster who betrayed her… Now this, the assassin and his lost love.

And Aeron is no exception, either, is she? She reaches up to touch the rings hanging on the chain around her neck. It must surely be her mind’s own doing that they are always so cold to the touch. Why else would they? She has no hint of magic in her blood—however useful that might have been when it mattered most.

She shakes her head and drops her hand. Now is not the time to think of this.

As soon as she enters the tent, she hears the rustle of fabric. Alistair is propped up on his elbows, hair mussed and expression full of drowsy admiration.

“You’re back,” he tells her in a sleep-raspy voice. “Is it almost morning already?”

“No.” Aeron pulls off her boots and bothers with little else, wanting only to curl up beside him. “Zevran offered to take watch instead.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.” She presses a kiss against his drowsy lips. “So I’m back.”

“Good. And good of Zevran, even if it’s twice I owe him, now. I’ll gladly…” Alistair covers them both in the blankets before wrapping his arms around her. “Damn dog tried stealing your spot.”

Aeron can hear Shepard snoring softly near the front of the tent. “Did he?”

“Tossed a bit of—” Alistair yawns. “—just a bit of cheese I had nearby. Works every time.”

“Does it now.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Good.” She shuts her eyes and tries to let the steady beat of his heart lull her to sleep. “Very good.”

“Aeron?”

“Hm?” There is a long measure of silence. Aeron raises her head. “Alistair, what is it?”

“Oh! Oh, I—oh, I’m sorry. I thought you’d already… I didn’t hear you, so—” The darkness does little to hide how sheepish he looks. “I just wanted to tell you that--that I love you. That was all.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.” Alistair gives her a sleepy little smile. “That was all. I mean, unless you’d like to hear more.” He starts to yawn. “I suppose that I could find a few…few more things to…you know, to say.”

He hums in approval when Aeron presses a kiss to his cheek. “That’s plenty. Go back to sleep, you insufferable nuisance.”

“Yours, though,” he murmurs, the smile still present in his voice.

And she loves him all the more for it.


End file.
